Here Burns My Candle Part 10

Elisabeth looked up to find Simon engaged in spirited discourse with her husband, his hands in constant motion. Aye, he is well, Mother.

When a pa.s.sing soldier fell against her with a mumbled apology, nearly knocking her over, Elisabeth planted her shoes more firmly in the soft ground and tightened her grip on the paper as she read on.

No one in Castleton of Braemar was surprised when Simon came out for the prince. Yet how can a mother bid her only son farewell with gladness?

Elisabeth swallowed. She could not fathom sending a loved one off to battle, even for the most worthy of causes. Not a father, nor a husband, nor a son. Nae, nor a brother.

Now to the point of this letter, Bess. It seems I am soon to be married. You may remember Mr. Cromar.

Elisabeth stared at the page, certain she'd misunderstood. Mother, you cannot mean this. Not Ben Cromar.

I fear your brother will not be pleased at the news. He does not care for the man.

Nor do I. Elisabeth swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She had never told her mother. Nae, she had never told anyone what she thought of Mr. Cromar. The bullish, red-haired blacksmith, with his callused hands and his gruff speech, first appeared not long after their father died. Mr. Cromar made himself useful for an hour or two each day, chopping wood or replacing the thatch on their roof. But even as he'd feigned interest in their mother, he'd fixed his dull but predatory gaze on her.

Elisabeth had done everything to avoid him, and still she discovered him lurking about the garden when she hung linens to dry or watching intently as she washed dishes by the hearth. Mr. Cromar never touched her, never spoke amiss to her. But each day his gaze grew bolder. She knew the time would come when he would find her alone in the cottage...

The thought sickened her still.

Oh, Mother, 'tis why I left. To spare us both.

When she looked down at the letter, she could not see the words for the tears in her eyes. She'd run away, thinking to protect her mother, hoping Mr. Cromar would lose interest. When her mother never mentioned his name, Elisabeth had a.s.sumed he'd stopped coming round their cottage. But he had not.

Please, Mother. You cannot marry him.

Alas, the letter made her mother's intentions clear.

We plan to wed at Michaelmas. I should have told Simon before he left home. But once the prince arrived in Perth, your brother was gone almost before I could kiss his cheek. Might you tell him for me, Bess?

She looked at Simon and imagined herself reporting the dreadful news. Mother intends to marry Ben Cromar. How could she say those words, knowing what she knew?

I realize it is a great deal to ask of you, and so I am grateful.

Your mother Elisabeth slowly folded the letter, wishing her brother had lost it on the march south. Aye, she would tell Simon their mother's news. She would also share her own grave misgivings.

"Bess?" Simon appeared at her side. "Is something wrong?"

She slipped the letter inside her hanging pocket. "Brother, we must speak. Alone."

"That may prove difficult, la.s.s." Her brother sketched an arc round them, encompa.s.sing a thousand soldiers or more. "I've nae roof o'er my head nor a bed to call my ain. We'll find nae privacy here."

Elisabeth nodded, her mind turning over the possibilities. Perhaps a public room, some distance from Milne Square...

"The inn at White Horse Close," she said at last, relieved to have thought of it. "Not far from here, at the foot of the Canongate. A crowded place, full of strangers. We'll not be noticed."

His brow darkened. "I dinna like the sound o' this."

"Naught but a bit of family news." Elisabeth hoped that would appease him for the moment. "When can we meet, lad?"

Simon rubbed his hand on the back of his neck for a moment. "I canna say. On the morrow, mebbe the day after. I'll send a caddie with a note." He looked up as a bank of clouds moved across the sun, casting a shadow over the palace. "Mark my wirds, Bess. We'll be loading oor muskets by week's end."

Eighteen.

Where's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land?

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

D onald eyed the older man at his elbow. "This isn't your first rebellion, Mr. Barrie."

"Nae." He laughed, revealing several missing teeth. "'Tis not."

While Elisabeth spoke with her brother, Donald had made the acquaintance of a veteran soldier in Simon's company. Judging by the slump of the man's shoulders and the loose skin round his neck, Tom Barrie was seventy years of age or more. But the Highlander's mind was sharp, and his valor could not be discounted.

"I fought at Sheriffmuir in the '15," Mr. Barrie said, the hair beneath his bonnet gray and thin. "A bitter cauld morn with frost on the marshes-"

"And now here you are," Donald smoothly interjected, "prepared to fight again." He'd already listened to a lengthy description of the Earl of Mar raising the standard for James Stuart in 1715. Donald couldn't help admiring the Highlander, with his chin sc.r.a.ped clean and his worn clothing neatly mended.

Mr. Barrie focused his rheumy eyes on Simon. "He learned his faither's trade, then cared for his widowed mither after Bess flitted to Edinburgh. A fine lad, that one."

"Aye." Donald watched Simon walk toward them with Elisabeth on his arm, his head held high, despite his limp. At Simon's age could he have taken on Cope's army? And with an injured leg? Donald well knew the answer. Nae.

His wife's countenance seemed troubled, yet she brightened at seeing Tom Barrie. "Look who's come to Edinburgh!" she cried, hastening to the man's side.

"'Tis only richt I march oot with the prince," he told her, "though I fear I'm too auld for the task."

"Not at all," Elisabeth protested. "Simon will see you have food to eat and a warm plaid at night. Won't you, lad?"

Simon threw his arm round the man's shoulders. "And ye, Mr. Barrie, are charged with keeping me oot o' ditches." To which Tom, fifty years his senior, responded in kind, clamping his arm round Simon.

Donald felt an unexpected twinge of envy. Was it their easy camaraderie he envied? Their courage in the face of daunting odds? Their willingness to die for what they believed? He'd never been part of something larger than himself-a n.o.ble cause, a glorious sacrifice. Was this what it looked like?

Maybe the warmth of the crowded park was to blame or the dust from so many footfalls, but the skin beneath his periwig began to itch. The prince's men wore naught on their heads but flat wool bonnets. Donald found himself longing to return home, toss his wig at Gibson, and go about the house scratching his scalp at will.

Elisabeth looked at him quizzically. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing of consequence," he said, despite his p.r.i.c.kly skin and his nagging conscience. "Milady, we've kept these men from their duties long enough."

Elisabeth gazed at her brother and sighed. "As always, Lord Kerr, you are right."

He was not always right-was often terribly wrong, in fact-but his wife's praise was a balm to his soul nonetheless. If she believed him to be a good man, perhaps he might yet become one.

They bade the men farewell and started for home. As Donald guided his wife round the north side of the palace, every soldier in the prince's army appeared ready to cut him in twain and claim Elisabeth for himself. "You've caused quite a stir," Donald observed, glaring at each man who dared catch her eye. "If you intend to visit Simon while the men are camped here, you'll not do so alone."

She paused, as if considering something, then said, "We're to meet at White Horse Close. I'll have Gibson escort me. No need to trouble you with such a task when you've more important duties."

Donald could think of no duty more pleasurable than spending time with his wife. Had he told her so of late? Or was he too busy leering at innocent maidservants and slipping through a widow's door in Halkerston's Wynd?

A jolt of pain moved through him. Not a physical ache, though it felt real enough.

Elisabeth looked at him askance. "Lord Kerr, are you quite all right?"

He banished the lie that rose to his lips and spoke the truth instead. "Nae, madam. But I am improving."

Not all battles are waged on gra.s.sy fields, he reminded himself, and not every skirmish requires bloodshed. To overcome his base desires, to do away with guilt and shame would be a worthy victory.

They made their way across the uneven cobblestones, navigating through a steady stream of townsfolk heading downhill toward the palace: pie sellers advertising the day's aromatic offerings; fishwives with baskets strapped to their backs and colorful handkerchiefs tied round their heads; lodging-house keepers wearing dingy ap.r.o.ns full of jangling keys. And everywhere they turned, Highlanders in kilted plaids, looking very pleased with themselves.

Donald nodded toward the sign painted on the wall. "Have we time for coffee at the Netherbow?"

"Aye," she quickly agreed. "I could do with a cup."

He ducked his head beneath the crooked lintel of the Netherbow coffeehouse, ushering Elisabeth withindoors. Low ceilinged and dimly lit, the crowded room smelled of strong coffee, bitter ale, and savory meat pies.

The affable Mr. Smeiton led the couple to a small table, where they were served almost before they settled onto wooden benches. "I've been here a' the morn lang," the proprietor told them while they stirred their hot drinks. His snug waistcoat was tailored with a thinner man's figure in mind, and his shirt sleeve bore evidence of the rich gravy in his pies. "What news from Holyroodhouse, Lord Kerr?"

While Donald described all they'd seen, Mr. Smeiton listened intently, punctuating each sentence with a nod. "Aye," he finally said, "Charlie's a braw lad. Meikle ado at the mercat cross this noontide as weel. Did ye hear the pipers?" He laughed and flapped his hand. "Och, how could ye not? They say Mistress Murray o' Broughton is sitting on her horse handing oot white c.o.c.kades." The proprietor winked. "In case ye need such a thing for yer bonnet."

Donald merely lifted his coffee cup, a prudent response on a day when political sympathies were shifting like the September breeze, blowing one direction, then the other. As Mr. Smeiton quit their table to welcome the next patron, Donald met Elisabeth's gaze across her steaming cup. "Your brother's a bright lad. Unwavering in his opinions."

She smiled at that. "Simon has always known what he believed and why. Tom Barrie as well. Such men can be very persuasive."

"Indeed they can." When Donald laid his hand on the table, palm up, she responded to his unspoken invitation and placed her hand in his. "Bess, I would know your thoughts on this Jacobite business."

His wife's blue eyes shone with conviction. "If you're asking do I believe James Stuart has a rightful claim to the throne, then I do."

Her answer did not surprise him, only her fervor. Did she fully grasp what a change in monarchy would cost them? t.i.tles, lands, wealth? Those things had never mattered to Elisabeth in the way they mattered to his mother.

Before he could respond, Elisabeth pushed aside her saucer. "What of your heart, Lord Kerr? Have you any sympathy for our cause?"

Her question took him aback. Well, man? Do you? He'd seldom given much thought to politics. But he could not discount what he had seen in Simon and Tom. Their honor, their bravery struck a chord inside him, one he'd not heard before.

Donald clasped her hand more firmly. "I am"-he searched for the right word-"intrigued. More than that I cannot promise. But if you've n.o.ble arguments to offer, I'm obliged to consider them."

She leaned toward him, her countenance glowing. "No cause could be n.o.bler than supporting the descendants of Mary, Queen of Scots. If James Stuart is restored to his rightful throne, he'll let his people worship whom and how they please." She squeezed his hand. "'Twill be a happy day for Scotland when our king comes o'er the water."

Her ardor was undeniable-nae, irresistible.

By the time they left the coffeehouse and started uphill toward home, she'd filled his head with brave tales from past Jacobite Risings and the heroes who'd championed the cause. Caught up in the moment, Donald squared his shoulders, imagining he marched beside Simon and Tom, a plaid kilted round his legs and one of his brother's French muskets in hand.

Elisabeth matched her gait to his. "Methinks you hear the drums, Lord Kerr."

"Ah...well..." He varied his steps at once, embarra.s.sed. "Bagpipes at least."

Was Elisabeth laughing at him? A quick glance put that concern to rest. It was not amus.e.m.e.nt he saw on her face but pride. Clearly his support of the Jacobites would please Elisabeth more than any lace-trimmed gown or conch-sh.e.l.l cameo.

The dowager, of course, would be inconsolable.

As they walked up the High Street, the skirl of the pipes grew louder. So did the crowd. The formal ceremonies at the mercat cross apparently had ended, with King James VIII of Scotland, England, and Ireland duly proclaimed. As the bells of Saint Giles rang out, many in the crowd sported white c.o.c.kades or streamers over their shoulders.

Not every face was jubilant. Donald saw fear, anger, even hatred reflected in the eyes of some who trudged past. Prince Charlie occupied the town, but he'd not yet conquered all her people.

Elisabeth lifted her straw brim to see ahead. "Ah! Margaret Murray of Broughton. Come, Lord Kerr, for I hear she's a sight to behold."

At the mouth of Carruber's Close, they met up with the renowned Jacobite woman, surrounded by admirers. Tall in stature, with milky skin and a dark ma.s.s of hair, the wife to the prince's secretary cut an elegant figure on horseback. She wore a fur-trimmed coat and a blue bonnet with a long feather. Her drawn sword was longer still. White ribbon c.o.c.kades fluttered from her bridle: a bold invitation to all willing to support the cause.

"Would you have a c.o.c.kade?" Donald inquired, certain of Elisabeth's answer. He led the way, weaving through the crowd until the couple reached the woman's side.

Though the two were strangers, Mistress Murray gazed down at Elisabeth like an old friend. "I know a Jacobite rose when I see one," the gentlewoman said, her voice as regal as her posture.

Elisabeth accepted the offered c.o.c.kade, expressing her thanks, then stepped aside to give others room. Only when the Kerrs reached the edge of the crowd did she open her hands to reveal not one c.o.c.kade, but two.

"For Janet?" Donald guessed.

"You know better than that," Elisabeth admonished him. "My sister-in-law may be a Highlander, but she's no Jacobite. Nae, I had someone else in mind."

As she gazed at him, Donald saw the truth in her eyes. "'Tis for me."

She tucked the silk flower deep inside his waistcoat pocket. "When the time is right."

"If 'tis right," he said sternly. His faint protest was unconvincing, even to himself.

Elisabeth used a hairpin to fasten the silk flower inside her sleeve, which belled from her elbow. "I fear your mother would ne'er recover if I strolled through the door with a Jacobite rose pinned to my bodice."

He tugged on the lace edging. "So you're wearing your heart on your sleeve instead?"

Elisabeth's smile was bittersweet. "Aye." She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and pointed him in the direction of Milne Square, stealing an occasional glance at the silken folds of the little white rose of Scotland brushing against her forearm.

By the time they crossed the threshold of the Kerr apartments, his mother was already seated at table, a look of impatience on her face. "We were about to start dinner without you."

"And now we're home," Donald informed her, feeling more headstrong than usual. He was Lord Kerr, was he not? He repaired with Elisabeth to their bedchamber long enough to visit the washbowl, then they joined his brother and mother at table.

Janet slipped into the drawing room a moment later, her hair in place, her gown freshly brushed. "I am here," she said, as if giving the household permission to begin.

Smoked salmon, veal collops, and roasted grouse-fish, flesh, fowl, in true Scots fashion-appeared on Donald's plate and was consumed just as swiftly. The last course, a generous serving of flummery, hot from the fire and aromatic with rose water and nutmeg, arrived in tandem with a loud and untimely knock at the stair door.

Gibson nodded at the dowager, then hurried to answer the summons.

While they waited round the table, a spark flew out of the candle nearest Elisabeth and landed beside her plate.

"Expecting a letter, are you?" Donald asked, eying the black speck. According to the old custom, such a spark meant news on the wing.

Gibson reappeared, bearing a sealed note. "For ye, Leddy Kerr," the manservant said with a bow, giving it to Elisabeth. When the last plate was cleared, she slipped away to their bedchamber, breaking the wax seal as she went.